Recalled to Death

by Priscilla Masters

  Beneath she put her contact details.

  She looked at it, and felt something was lacking. Yeah – like who is this man? She made a face and pressed send. Almost immediately she watched as messages started pinging back in and her phone started ringing. The press had instant access to anything coming from the police. Crime was news. News sold papers. She made a face and started batting away questions on the internet and from the other end of her phone, placed in front of her on speaker phone. She could tell them little more.

  She had one ironic thought: this would surely raise the profile of the little-known ruin! It would draw crowds to gape at that dramatic and beautiful facade. The ruin would now have a contemporary tragedy. Families would picnic out on the Murder at Moreton Corbet Castle. It would assume an even greater place in Shropshire folklore.

  Roberts was deciding whether to treat himself to chicken nuggets and French fries or whether it would appear unprofessional to be munching away at the same time as he was questioning the staff at McDonald’s.

  He initially asked the girls who were busy dishing out the orders and was soon speaking to the supervisor, a neat, polite lad in his late twenties with the name ‘Jim’ printed on his name badge. He eyed Roberts suspiciously and came up with the unoriginal line, spoken pleasantly, ‘And how may I help you?’

  Roberts gave him a potted version of events and told ‘Jim’ that they were trying to find out the identity of a homeless man found dead in Moreton Corbet Castle.

  Jim raised his eyebrows and said precisely nothing.

  Roberts realized he was probably worried that he and his staff would get into trouble for sheltering and feeding vagrants in the establishment.

  Roberts tried to reassure him. ‘Look,’ he said reasonably, ‘we just want to find out who he was.’

  ‘Well, my girls are good to the homeless,’ Jim said. ‘I mean – what’s the harm?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Roberts said, wishing the food didn’t smell so tempting. ‘I think it’s wonderful that you’re so kind to them.’ He tried a feeble joke. ‘I bet Ronald McDonald would approve, really.’

  Jim didn’t even attempt to raise a smile.

  Roberts showed him the picture and Jim took a good hard look. ‘Can’t say I know him. Look,’ he said. ‘Can I have a copy? I’ll show it round the girls and see if I can come up with something.’

  Roberts almost hugged him. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Got a photocopier?’

  Friday, 12 September, 8 p.m.

  There wasn’t really much to report at this stage, although each officer related the results of their afternoon’s work. But they all knew they were waiting for the post-mortem. Waiting for forensic evidence to be gathered and analysed, waiting for someone to come forward with knowledge of The Man’s identity.

  Roberts went through the response at the convent, mentioning that Sister Agnes appeared to have known him but hadn’t given much else in the way of information. He told them about another homeless man who’d been attacked and died from his injuries – Joseph Gallagher. A few officers used their iPads and smartphones to search through the details. Gallagher had died following a drunken brawl outside a pub. Most of the fracas had been captured on CCTV. Gallagher had been staggering, lashing out, and four men had responded. Gallagher’s body had sustained twenty-eight separate injuries. All four men had been arrested, two of the ringleaders charged with manslaughter and sentenced and the other two had somehow been gifted non-custodial sentences.

  The ways of the law.

  The general feeling was that the crimes were different, the only common factor being that both victims had been homeless.

  With satisfaction, Roberts watched DI Randall write up the little they knew about The Man on the whiteboard. They wrote The Man at the top.

  Underneath that: Catholic? Five years a vagrant? Kept himself to himself. Didn’t give away his name.

  ‘Why not?’ Randall threw the question out into the room and got some response.

  ‘Someone famous?’

  ‘Somebody after him?’ That from PC Dart, who quickly related the story of Daniel Kamara.

  More suggestions were tossed into the room to be considered.

  ‘He’s known to the law?’

  They weren’t short of ideas.

  Coleman went through Sharp’s reaction to the murder and PC Tinsley read out her press release. Although they were almost certain of the cause of death they hoped that the post-mortem would somehow help their investigation.

  Alex Randall wound up the briefing and the officers dispersed. But not all of them had finished their day’s work.

  Friday, 12 September, 9 p.m.

  Gary Coleman received the call in the evening. Wilfred Hook, the owner of Moreton Corbet Cottage, and Imogen had arrived home.

  Wilfred Hook sounded energetic, bouncy and full of enthusiasm, even at the news of the murder. ‘Poor chap,’ he said, and Coleman heard him shout, presumably to his wife. ‘Feller died at the castle, Imogen.’

  There was no rejoinder and Mr Hook continued asking more questions to which virtually all Coleman’s answers were don’t know or can’t tell. And thinking, I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know the answer.

  ‘Who was the man? How did he die? Is foul play suspected?’

  And so on.

  Finally Coleman arranged to interview them in the morning, when he would bring a picture – or photofit – of The Man.

  Wilfred Hook rang off with a sobering comment. ‘S’pose I’d better be careful I lock up properly tonight. Eh, Imogen?’

  Again, there was no rejoinder.

  EIGHT

  Friday, 12 September, midnight.

  It had fallen to Sergeant Sandy Mucklow to guard the crime scene together with a young special constable called Dean Kramer. Kramer was angling after a permanent place in the force so was always volunteering for something or other. The truth was that his application had been treated favourably largely on the strength of his prowess on the rugby field. He was a big guy with the heart of a chicken and he was finding, even with his sergeant’s comfortable and sturdy presence, this place too spooky by half. It didn’t help that the moon was strolling across a sky blotted with huge clouds so one minute it appeared, lighting the scene with silver, and the next minute they were in total darkness. And it didn’t help either that a tawny owl was ‘whoo-whoo’-ing from a nearby tree. To cover up his unease, Kramer started telling Mucklow about various tries he’d performed playing for his team, which were hardly from the top division – Newport, Shropshire – not even Newport Gwent. Truth was Mucklow was bored stiff as Kramer rambled on. ‘I just picked up the ball. And I ran and ran. I could hear everyone screaming and shouting.’ Kramer’s eyes gleamed in sudden moonlight. ‘I had the wind at my back and it was lifting me. Right to the touchline. I was deafened by the roar. Never forgotten it.’

  Mucklow made a non-committal grunt. He was tired. He would have given anything for a nice warm bed and someone to cuddle up to. But that particular wish was not to be granted. His long-term girlfriend had left two years ago, her words still echoing sharp as glass in his ears. ‘You’re never there, Sandy. Your wife is the force. Get it? I’m superfluous so stay married to your “wife”. I’m off to find myself a man who spends at least some time with me. Appreciates me. Understand?’

  What was there to understand? he thought gloomily. In some ways she was right. Look where he was now.

  Kramer was still rambling on. ‘If I hadn’t slipped just at that exact moment I’d have been playing for England by now. I would. I’d have been in the team.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mucklow, still unenthusiastic.

  They’d made themselves a sort of base in the Great Tower. Moonlight, Gothic ruin. The scene was set. Strange to think it had been around for nine hundred years. Kramer stopped talking and screwed up his face. Nine hundred years. He looked around, thoroughly spooked now. What had Shropshire been like nine hundred years ago? He tried to imagine a world without cars, without
mobile phones, without television – and failed completely.

  Imagination was not Kramer’s strongest point. But it did strike him as incredible that after nine hundred years here they were, in this dramatic-looking ruin, and even with all modern technology at their disposal: DNA, fingerprints, computer databases that contained just about every personal detail of almost everyone in the United Kingdom and most of the rest of the world as well, they had not managed to identify their man. The damn owl ‘whoo-whoo’ed again and Kramer was startled back into the present. ‘What was that?’ His voice sounded strained after the monotonic match commentary. He fingered his mobile phone. Lifeline? Not really. If the killer was still around and wanted blood, however quick the response to a 999 call they would be too late. He fingered his own thick neck uncomfortably then looked at Mucklow. Mucklow, too, had heard or seen something. He had stiffened, tensed up, head forward listening intently.

  Something was moving amongst the buildings. Clutching speedcuffs, pepper spray, batons, personal radios and flashing their torches, they aimed the beams. The words of the news bulletin echoed around uncomfortably. This man is dangerous. If you see him do not approach but summon help.

  Trouble was he and Mucklow here were the help.

  The moon had helpfully emerged from behind the cloud at just the right time, casting a shadow of the facade on to the mown grass. They picked out the moving shape – a badger – and missed the other shape – a woman, standing at the gate. Just standing. She’d been drawn back to the scene, as though it was magnetic, had parked her car two hundred yards away and now softly walked back.

  NINE

  Saturday, 13 September, 9.30 a.m.

  Gary Coleman watched the estate car swing into the drive. The occupant of Moreton Corbet Cottage had arrived home. He walked up towards the house and encountered Wilfred Hook inserting the key in his door to the accompaniment of some loud, welcoming barks.

  Hook turned to look at him. ‘Hello? Just been out to get the paper.’

  Coleman introduced himself, displaying his ID card, and Hook met his eyes. He was a plump man, soft bellied and bald, with a beneficent face. He reminded Coleman of a sofa stuffed with duck-down. Even his voice was soft. ‘Obviously I’ve seen all the comings and goings. I’m intrigued. Are you going to explain?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Coleman said smartly. ‘Shall we go inside?’

  Imogen turned out to be a beautiful Golden Labrador who welcomed her master with affection and enthusiasm before turning her attention on the police officer.

  When he and Patty were married, he thought, after the wedding, once they had a house and just before they started a family, he would very much like a dog just like this one. He bent and patted the hound, who wagged her tail in appreciation.

  Hook led him into a small, chintzy sitting room which smelt of dog and Coleman began his explanation. ‘As I told you, the body of a man has been found in the castle,’ he said.

  Hook showed only mild curiosity. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘In the cellar off the lower chamber of the dining hall.’

  ‘So …?’ Hook didn’t appear shocked or even surprised. Coleman had to remind himself that Mr Wilfred Hook didn’t know the full story – yet. He’d skipped round any facts last night, deflecting his questions with don’t knows or can’t tells. Now he could fill in some of the detail.

  ‘We’re still waiting for the official results of the post-mortem,’ he said guardedly, ‘but his injuries are consistent with homicide. He’d had his throat cut, sir.’

  Hook made a shocked face and bent to stroke the dog. ‘And he was killed here?’

  ‘We’re working on that theory.’

  Hook was silent for a long minute, his face twisting and his mouth stern. Something of her master’s concern appeared to translate to the dog. She sat still, her head now on her master’s lap, tail not wagging any more. Her mournful brown eyes looked up into his face.

  Hook patted her absent-mindedly, then looked straight at PC Coleman. ‘This is awful,’ he said. ‘Who could have done such a horrible thing?’ Then he frowned. ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Coleman said frankly. ‘We’re currently working on the assumption that he was a vagrant, a tramp.’

  Hook gave a long, deep sigh. ‘Poor man,’ he said. Then added, ‘Horrible. Quite horrible.’ His hand moved towards his own neck, ‘Am I in any danger, Constable?’

  ‘Two police will be guarding the site for the next couple of days,’ Coleman said, ‘but in my experience most killers want to put as much distance between them and their crime as possible. I would, however, suggest that you’re careful to keep doors and windows locked and contact us if you see anything suspicious.’ Coleman frowned. ‘Do you live alone?’

  The question appeared to cause Hook some discomfort. ‘Except for Imogen.’ He gave Coleman a bold, defiant stare.

  Gary Coleman had looked at the electoral register and seen that two years ago there had been a Mrs Hook. A Mrs Mavis Hook. So where had she vanished to?

  It would do for another time, but the fact was that Wilfred, however urbane and pleasant he might appear, had been right here, on the scene, as near as it was possible to be.

  ‘Just for the record,’ he asked casually, ‘where were you on Thursday night?’

  ‘The marquetry club. In Shrewsbury,’ Hook answered quickly and brightly. ‘Second Thursday every month – except Christmas and New Year, of course.’

  ‘And you get back at what time?’

  ‘About ten thirty. We usually stop and have a bit of a drink, you know.’

  ‘You mean the other members of the marquetry club?’

  ‘Yes. There are ten of us.’

  ‘I see.’ So Hook had an alibi.

  Coleman smiled. ‘Just checking, you understand.’ Something struck him. ‘When you drove home—’

  Hook interrupted. ‘It was a nasty night. Pouring it down. I was glad to get back, actually.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anyone at the side of the road?’

  Hook frowned, scowling to remember. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said.

  Coleman bent and patted Imogen. ‘And did you take Imogen out for a walk when you got back?’

  ‘Always do,’ Hook said, then stopped himself. ‘Ah.’

  PC Gary Coleman pursued his prey. ‘Did you notice anything out there?’

  Hook shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘Have you ever seen someone scruffy, a tramp maybe, hanging around here?’

  ‘Once or twice. Never took much notice. What was it our Lord said – the poor are always with us?’

  Coleman nodded then showed him the artist’s impression of The Man. ‘Have you ever seen him around here before?’

  Hook shook his head. ‘Not that I remember. Of course, you don’t look too carefully at vagrants.’ He gave an embarrassed clearing of his throat. ‘They always want …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Money,’ Coleman supplied.

  ‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘And they all look the same. Thick coats, long hair.’ He looked up at Coleman. ‘Same smell too.’

  Coleman nodded.

  ‘I do give them money sometimes,’ Hook said. ‘I know we’re not supposed to because they spend any money on drugs or beer or whatever but he looked so wretched.’

  Coleman pushed the picture closer to him.

  ‘I don’t think it was this man,’ Wilfred Hook said. ‘But you do feel sorry for them, don’t you?’

  Coleman nodded. He was aware that Wilfred Hook’s attention was drifting away.

  ‘We may ask you to take a look at the man’s coat and see if you recognize it.’

  Hook simply nodded.

  ‘Sir,’ he began again, and was aware that his information had triggered some response in Hook. ‘Has anything like this ever happened before?’

  Hook shook his head, but he was still preoccupied with something.

  Coleman was in pursuit. ‘Have you ever noticed anything suspiciou
s happening around here?’

  Again he shook his head but his expression was wary. ‘Nothing much. You know, teenagers smoking, kids climbing the walls higher than they should. That sort of thing. Polystyrene food boxes and chucked away cans and papers.’ He looked pained. ‘It’s that sort of place, Constable.’ His eyes drifted back to the picture. ‘But not this sort of place.’

  Coleman knew he would get nothing more out of him.

  TEN

  Monday, 15 September, 9 a.m.

  The body of the man was wheeled into the post-mortem room still fully clothed. Everything on his body was to be recorded, photographed, bagged and kept as potential evidence. Now the bags were taken off his hands, swabs taken from underneath his fingernails and his fingerprints taken. Then the thick coat was removed and the pockets checked again. There wasn’t much in there. A crumpled five-pound note, an apple core. The coat would be looked at carefully for any trace evidence of the assailant or perhaps a clue as to its origins. DI Randall watched the proceedings without comment until Talith felt along the lining.

  ‘Something in here, sir,’ he said. Randall bent over some neat hand stitching and felt a small object.

  Talith cut through the stitching and pulled out a child’s shoe. An old black leather object with a wooden sole nailed to the upper. A clog. It looked about a hundred years old and about the size a six-year-old would wear. The two police officers looked at each other, baffled. Mark Sullivan shrugged too. ‘Search me,’ he said. Then added thoughtfully, ‘Do you think it’s his child’s shoe?’

  Randall shook his head. ‘It looks far too old. It looks Victorian or even older.’ He studied it. ‘I’ve seen something like it in museums. It can’t be his own child’s. At a guess it’s over a hundred years old and handmade.’